


Made by Hand

by xylodemon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:12:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is sweating by the time he finishes sketching out the line, his shirt damp at the collar and clinging to his chest. The sun has shifted; it's high in the sky now, burning warm and bright and bleaching the uncharred wood the color of old bones. He sheds his hoodie, dropping it next to his feet. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, then tells himself to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made by Hand

**Author's Note:**

> In which Stiles uses magic to restore the Hale house. Inspired by [this gifset](http://lilredgenimhood.tumblr.com/post/33387582788/au-in-which-stiles-uses-magic-to-restore-the-hale) on Tumblr.
> 
> (This is either gen fic or pre-slash, it's an eye-of-the-beholder kind of thing)

> _"That's the same one you used to trap Jackson," Deaton says._
> 
> _Stiles moves his fingers along the shelf, studying each of the jars, before he comes to one that is set behind the others. "What does this one do?"_
> 
> _"That’s the most rare powder I've managed to get hold of so far. It can restore anything to the way it was meant to be."_
> 
> _"Can I?"_
> 
> _Behind him, Scott asks, "What would you need that for?"_
> 
> _But Deaton nods and says, "Be careful what you use it for," and Stiles slips it into his pocket._
> 
> _Fifteen minutes later he is walking through the woods toward the Hale house._ [[x](http://lilredgenimhood.tumblr.com/post/33387582788/au-in-which-stiles-uses-magic-to-restore-the-hale)]

The Hale house looks different in the daylight, sadder and somehow scarier, all scorched wood and broken glass and nothing to hide the damage. It seems to shift with the breeze, creaking and casting long shadows that dance out toward the treeline, make strange shapes that push too close to Stiles' feet. The porch sags slightly where it joins into the steps, and the front door is crooked, still branded with the Alpha pack's fading mark. Everything smells of late autumn, pine trees and damp soil and fallen leaves, and beneath that there's a faint hint of dust and ash.

Stiles hovers at the rough edge of the clearing for a few minutes, bouncing his weight from foot to foot and rolling the bottle between his hands. He gets this way before he fucks around with magic, restless energy and jittery nerves and a healthy dose of _I've got to be crazy_ , but he's pretty sure he can do this. Okay, he's _mostly_ sure, but there's really no good reason not to try. If it doesn't work -- well, it's not like he could actually make things any worse, and Derek, Derek needs this. He shares an apartment with Isaac now that the railway station has finally been condemned, two bedrooms in a squat quadraplex behind the laundromat on the other side of town. It isn't much -- an old couch and an older TV and a bed in each bedroom, and from what Isaac says Derek is unhappy there, unable to settle.

"It's not his home," Stiles says, digging his heel into the soft dirt. "It's not his territory."

A bird trills overhead, a shrill and impatient sound, and Stiles sighs under his breath.

"Yeah, okay. I'm going, I'm going."

The powder sticks to Stiles' hands a little, smells sharp and pungent and earthy, is probably a careful combination of rosemary and yarrow and spells way over Stiles' head. It's nearly the same color as mountain ash, but it's been ground down into something about the weight of cake flour, so fine Stiles worries it will blow away with the breeze. He sprinkles it evenly along the foundation of the house, making cautious guesses when the damage leaves him without a guide, pausing often to check his work, kicking brush and pine needles out of the way as he walks. He stumbles into a mud puddle around the back of the house, shallow but wide, wet from last night's rain and no direct sunlight this morning; his Vans make thick, squelchy noises as he tries to find his balance, and he curses as he fumbles the bottle, biting his lip until he tastes blood in the corner of his mouth.

He's sweating by the time he finishes sketching out the line, his shirt damp at the collar and clinging to his chest. The sun has shifted; it's high in the sky now, burning warm and bright and bleaching the uncharred wood the color of old bones. He sheds his hoodie, dropping it next to his feet. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, then tells himself to believe, to _remember_.

The forest preserve had been Stiles' favorite place as a kid; he explored it at every opportunity, spending all day when he could, often dragging Scott along with him, trekking as deep as Scott's asthma would allow, sometimes deeper. The Hale property was both off-limits and pretty well off the beaten track, but they made it out that far more than once, the last time just a few weeks before the fire. The house is hazy in Stiles' mind, an abstract more than an actual thing, but he can almost picture it -- wood frame and red brick chimneys, white trim and wide windows and a thickly shingled roof. 

He takes another breath, then another, clamping down in the urge to fidget. The breeze gusts around him, sudden and cold against his sweaty cheeks, the back of his neck. He can still feel the powder on his hands, sticky between his fingers, gritty where it's crept underneath his nails, and he can still smell it, the scent curling further into his nose as he scratches his chin with the side of his wrist. He catches something minty, wonders if there's spearmint mixed in with the rosemary and yarrow, then huffs and shoves the thought away. He's used a lot of magic in the last year -- against fairies, against trolls, against a couple of beast-creature-animal-things he still has yet to identify -- and he's learned that it's best if he doesn't dwell on _why_ or _how_. It's all about mind over matter, the force of his will; if he tries to pick it apart his belief just collapses in his face, unravels like an old sweater with a loose thread.

Wood. Brick. Glass. Shingles. _Believe_. There'd been a hedge along the porch, cut to flank the front steps, something with purple-pink flowers and dark, shiny leaves. Oleander, maybe. Or bougainvillea.

The bird trills again, fluttering out of the trees, and Stiles opens his eyes.

"Oh, shit."

The house is... perfect. Absolutely perfect. It's exactly what Stiles doesn't quite remember, all heavy beams and a peaked roof and flower-boxes full of daisies in the windows. His legs are starting to shake, a slow tremor hidden in the hollows of his knees, stretching up the backs of his thighs; he should probably sit down, but he's afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid the whole thing is just a crazy hallucination.

"Stiles?" 

"Oh my _God_ ," Stiles says, spinning around as Derek melts out of the shadows between two trees. He stumbles a little, feels suddenly dizzy and weak. "We've talked about his, your habit of scaring me half to death. I'd like to legally buy a beer before I have my first heart attack. What are you doing here? The pack meeting doesn't start for like five hours."

Derek is staring at the house; his eyes are wide and terribly green.

"Okay, so, the house -- wait, you can see the house, right?"

"Yes."

"Thank God," Stiles says, blinking as the world tries to tilt to one side. He's exhausted, tired in a way he can feel in his bones, but he did it. He fucking _did it_. He built a house with a handful of magic powder and his mind. "I was starting to think I'd made it all up in my head. Well, I _did_ make it up in my head, but that's not what I mean."

"Stiles, what did you do?"

"Deaton, he had this powder, it's supposed to restore things to the way they're meant to be, so I thought -- "

"You thought you'd restore my house."

Derek's voice is flat, like he thinks Stiles was stupid for even considering it. And yeah, Stiles isn't exactly powerful. On a scale from one to badass he's a solid five-and-a-half on his best day. Maybe he had been stupid for even considering something this huge, but that isn't the point right now. The point is, it fucking _worked_.

"Yeah, I did."

They stare at each other for a moment; the silence is heavy, unspeakably awkward. Stiles scrambles around for something to say -- for _anything_ to say, but before he can open his mouth he sways on his feet. Derek catches him under the arm as he pitches forward, his big hand cradling Stiles' elbow, his fingers bunching in Stiles' sleeve. 

"Magic fatigue," Derek says.

"Probably." Stiles has only had it once before, after their run-in with the trolls, when he tried to turn mountain ash and gunpowder into something that would approximate lightning when lit on fire. That was months ago, but he thinks he feels about the same right now, shaky exhaustion and a dull headache behind his eyes, dizziness and a sick-sour taste in the back of his mouth. "I should sit down."

Derek herds Stiles over to the steps, hovering a little as Stiles gets settled in. The wood doesn't even creak, is solid under Stiles' butt in a way Stiles in inclined to be pleased about -- he did it, he really fucking did it -- but then he looks up at Derek and feels like the worst person in the world.

"Oh my God, the house. You -- you didn't want it," Stiles says. Derek's face is a strange combination of hurt and sad, and Stiles can't look at it, frowns down at his feet instead. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize." Of course Derek doesn't want the house, there's nothing here for him but bad memories and the ghosts of his family. "I didn't think -- you've probably been waiting for the county to come knock it down or something, and now I've --"

"No. No, that's not it. The house is," Derek pauses for a moment, scratches the side of his neck. "I just never thought I'd see it again."

"Oh."

"You could've been hurt."

"I'll be fine in a couple hours," Stiles says. He scoots down to sit on the second step and leans back on his elbows. "I just need a nap, and some all-you-can-eat Chinese. Mostly a nap."

"Stiles."

Stiles huffs under his breath. "Don't even start with that shit. The way things have been, I could get hurt just leaving my house. I could get hurt _inside_ my house," he insists, waving his hands. "Remember that witch? She came right through my window."

Derek crouches down between Stiles' legs, resting his elbows on his bent knees. He studies Stiles for a moment, the sighs and says, "Why?"

"Isaac says you never sleep," Stiles explains. "He says you sit up half the night, pacing or staring out the window." Derek's mouth tightens slightly, but Stiles just keeps talking. "I thought maybe it was because, you know. That apartment isn't _yours_ , not like this place is." 

"No. It isn't mine." Derek sighs again; he runs his hand across the bottom step, then up over the curve of the railing. This close, he smells like leather and crisp autumn air. "I can't believe you."

"Most days, I can't believe me either."

Derek curls his hand around the back of Stiles' neck, squeezes. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Well, no. Not _Anytime_ anytime. I used up all of Deaton's powder, so don't dent the Camaro or rip your jacket until he gets more," Stiles says, his voice splitting around a yawn. "Hey, do me a favor and see if I cooked up any furniture in there."

"Furniture?"

"You know, a couch or a futon. A beanbag chair. Anything, really. I kind of need that nap now."

"Come on," Derek says, pulling Stiles to his feet. "We'll figure something out."


End file.
